The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (7 page)

Gregory cast a look to the heavens. “The statutes?” He gave a short laugh. “They’ve weakened to nearly nothing. Even the man who proposed it has left parliament, in a quandary to its validity, nay, its necessity. Not only have they not been able to enforce it, there have been countless unions made between the Gaels and English. You didn’t know?”

Cara would not believe him. “Nay, and why should I believe you?”

His face registered surprise. “I assure you, milady, it is the truth. Why would I speak otherwise?”

A swirl of mixed emotions filled Cara’s heart. “And what is the truth, milord?” she retorted. “Which of you, Edmund or yourself, has had the heartiest laugh at my expense?”

“Ah, I see now how it is. You think that I am telling you these things in order to win a quick romp. Here is the truth then, Cara. When my father dies, I stand as his heir to inherit everything. I can take care of you. Give you everything you want, all you deserve.”

Cara could not believe her ears. Of course, he didn’t know about her child. That bit of news would no doubt sour his amorous intentions.

“Cara. You must believe me,” he said, reaching out to touch her, but drawing away at the look on her face.

“Why should I? Three years. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I have been through, what sacrifices I have made.”

He regarded her with an inquisitive look. “Tell me everything, Cara. If I can help, I will. I want you to believe me.”

He took a step toward her, but she eased away. She held up her hands to keep him from touching her, and backed out from under the tree. The rain came down in torrents, pounding her body. “Leave me alone,” she said, grabbing her shoes and running through the downpour to Kiernan’s house.

Cara stared out of the window of the room she’d once shared with her sister. The episode with Gregory the day before had left her confused, and then to come home and hear her father extolling the praises of the fifty-year-old
widower farmer he’d hope she would marry was too much for her. She’d gone directly to her room, refusing the evening meal, and now breakfast. Cara thought of how many times she’d lain in her small bed and dreamed of the handsome young man she would marry one day. How passionate would be their love and how they would gracefully grow old together, surrounded by their grandchildren. But all of that was but the dreams of a naive young girl, a girl who no longer existed.

A soft tap on the door brought her out of her reverie, and she found her mother, hands clasped together excitedly, standing in her room.

“Ye need to come out here, Cara. There’s a most handsome gentleman whose come a-callin’. He speaks of marriage.”

Cara searched her mind for the handful of young men in her village not already betrothed. Gregory’s words sparked in her mind and she stood, peeking around the door to see him seated at the family table, speaking with her da. Her eyes widened and she slinked back into the room, her mind reeling over what to do. Had marriage been what he’d meant when he told her he was coming to see her da? Cara hugged her arms.

“Cara, you should make yerself presentable to your guest,” her mother suggested.

“I cannot marry him,” she whispered, trying to control the panic playing in her head.

Her mother eased the bedroom door shut and settled on Kiernan’s old bed. “Listen to me, child. I canna say what misgivings you have about this man. But he is of sound stock and has promised many good things to yer da in exchange for your hand and your dowry.”

Cara studied her mother’s eyes. “My dowry?”

“Aye, as our only child yet unmarried. Yer da has offered part of his land to the lad now, and the rest upon his death. He’s added a part of our cattle, as well, and a shared seat in the village administration.”

“That’s too much. Why would he offer an Englishman so much of all he has in this world?”

Her mother rose and came to her, touching her cheek. “Because in spite of what you think, yer da wants to see you happy. This young man apparently has impressed him as being one to provide that. Things are not the same as they once were, Cara. Our way of life grows smaller each day. Yer da knows this and is trying to see to it that you and Kiernan will be cared for.”

Cara paced, considering her options. “Does Gregory know about Moyran?”

Her mother shook her head. “I think Galen is leaving that in your hands. Moyran is safe and happy as any child could be. It is possible the lad would take her in, but he may also want to be startin’ a family of his own.”

Cara took a deep breath and looked up at the simple thatch roof she’d lived under her whole life. How would she fare in the elegance of an Englishman’s house? How could she marry Edmund’s best friend?

“Then again, there is always the option of Theron Harrington’s hand.” Her mother gave her a pointed look.

The idea of suffering through life with an old man whose teeth were nearly gone turned her stomach. And as Gregory had pointed out, Edmund had chosen his life. Now she must choose what was best for her. Not all marriages began because of love. She could learn to love Gregory, and at the very least, she knew she might enjoy his bed.

Cara followed her mother. Gregory and her da both
stood when she entered the room. Cara etched in her mind the look of desire on Gregory’s face and tucked it away. “It is with humility that I accept your proposal.”

6

EDMUND LOOKED DOWN AT THE ROUGH SCARS crisscrossing his hands, evidence of his work in tending the gardens of the remote mountainside monastery. He hadn’t taken much notice before now. The letter he’d received had caused him to face the ghosts of his past—the reality that a world truly existed beyond the safe walls of this simple abbey. Since the arrival of the invitation three days ago, sent via his mother, a part of his life that he’d managed to tuck away, denouncing its importance as part of a reckless and rebellious childhood, had been reopened. And it drummed up emotions that he’d set aside long ago in favor of servitude and self-denial. His parents, of course, were angry that he’d abruptly ended his studies toward becoming an entitled member of the priesthood. Even more so, when he instead chose a path that many would find difficult, if not impossible to walk. But he’d chosen it as a sacrifice, a way to rid himself of his past mistakes, to empty himself entirely of every gain—material or title—and exist in a cloistered world where he would serve only God in silent humility.

Edmund shifted on the stark, backless bench, waiting
for the abbot, who had summoned him to the abbey’s administrative quarters. The heat from the sultry autumn day pooled between Edmund thighs. His palms sweated. His plain white linen robes were comfortable enough out of doors, but inside, where little air circulated, his body was suffocating. He pushed himself to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest as the old man entered the room. Edmund bowed out of reverence, accepting the lord abbot’s hand, placing a kiss on his ring.

“Peace to you, Edmund. Please sit. This heat is almost unbearable, but we can’t complain. The crops enjoy the sun well enough to give us good harvest.”

Edmund sat, as did the abbot, across the plain table that served as his desk.

“You seem to be doing well here, Edmund. I trust the monastic life agrees with you?” The abbot did not look at him, only shuffled some papers, peering at them with a frown, before he picked up his spectacles and adjusted them on his nose.

“I am, Your Reverence. It is a good life, serving God in this way,” Edmund responded.

The old man, his face covered with a snow-white beard, nodded, drawing his hood down around his neck. Edmund noted how the abbot’s thin white hair barely covered the top of his sun-burnished head. He glanced at his hands again, noting how dark his complexion was in comparison to when he’d first arrived.

“Our work keep us busy.” The abbot chuckled. “The Lord’s work is never done.”

“Yes, milord,” Edmund replied, wondering why he’d been called here. He was anxious to get back to the fields and finish the weeding before evening vespers.

“You have news from home, I understand?” The abbot gave him a brief glance before looking again at his papers.

Edmund felt the folded sheet he’d tucked in the pocket of his robe. He’d not yet had the chance to write and tell his mother he wasn’t coming home. He pulled it out and handed it to the abbot.

The old man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I have read it, my son. It is why you have been called here today. I understand this is your best friend who is to be married?”

Of course,
Edmund thought as he slipped the paper back into his pocket. All communications—ingoing or outgoing—went through the high clergy. Still, Edmund wasn’t sure why he would have been called in because of the letter. He’d made no request for special permission to leave. He had no intention of attending the wedding. Edmund waited, not wishing to show disrespect by asking what was the point of this meeting.

“What do you intend to do?” the Abbot asked calmly, his gaze resting on Edmund. “
Do?
Milord, I am not certain I understand the question,” he responded.

Edmund looked at his mentor, the man who saved him three years ago when he collapsed on the monastery steps, destitute and hungry. He never arrived at the Roman seminary, instead setting forth on a journey of his own, searching for a greater purpose to his life, perhaps in an attempt to abolish the guilt of disobeying his parents and breaking his promise to Cara. He wandered village to village until the day he stumbled upon the steps of the remote abbey in eastern France. Nursed back to health, Edmund felt he’d found his calling, to serve faithfully alongside those who had helped him in a time of need. Not once had he ever
questioned the abbot’s most puzzling methods of testing his faith.

“So I ask you, what are your plans? Is it not an invitation to return to your village and attend the springtime wedding of your childhood friend?”

Edmund shrugged. “He will have to understand that my work here at the abbey is more important.”

The old man propped his fingertips together, his shaggy gray eyebrows drawing into a frown as he spoke. “This is your third year with us, is that not true, Edmund?”

“Yes, your Reverence.”

“And you have twice made your vow to serve God according to the Byland brethren.”

Edmund nodded, shifting again from the warmth permeating his flesh beneath his robes. His thoughts raced back over the two years since he’d decided to seek admission into the monastic life. Years as a novice, twice reaffirming his vows. It had been a wise choice, Edmund felt, using hard work to replace the guilt of disappointing his family, of defiling a woman, of forbidden desire.

“This is your third year. Soon you may request to take your permanent vows and receive your full orders.” The abbot’s gaze narrowed on him. “You are our youngest candidate, Edmund, a young man in his prime. And yet you are certain that this is the path that is best for you?”

Edmund swallowed hard and stared into the eyes of wisdom. “Forgive me, milord. But has there been some cause to doubt my dedication?”

“No, no, Edmund, you are a most welcome addition, and I have no doubt that in time you would be an asset to our order.”

It did Edmund good to hear the affirmation, since, having received the letter from home, he found his mind
filled with the memories and images he’d tried with great determination to remove. His body had yearnings that he’d not experienced in a long time. He’d lain awake at night, unable to sleep, haunted by visions of walking through the labyrinth, the full moon high overhead, the drums drifting through the night air, mingling with Cara’s sighs as he rode her to completion. He could not look in the abbot’s eyes. “Thank you, milord.”

“You are a humble and noble man, Edmund.”

His eyes darted to the old man’s steady blue gaze, sparking with wisdom.

“However ready you may feel you are to join our abbey, I must ask—have you resolved the issues of your past? You once told me that you had parted ways with a good friend, over a disagreement. Is this man that friend, by chance?”

He could not deny what the abbot had already concluded. “Yes, milord. We were once as brothers, inseparable.”

“Yet you have not spoken to him since the day of your disagreement?”

Edmund nodded.

“Edmund, the path to serving God is not a smooth one. Like the gardens you so love, it, too, can grow cluttered with stones, overgrown with weeds. And we are the tenders of that garden. Only we can clear the path, so that the growth of God’s goodness is not hindered by obstacles.”

Edmund stared at the old man.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” the abbot asked.

Though he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t. There were aspects of his life that had been left unresolved. They needed to be made right, so that he could move on with a clear conscience. He’d wrestled with the demons of his
past for too long, and now he had to make peace with them, before he could be at peace with himself.

“You are telling me that I should attend my friend’s wedding. Isn’t that what you’re saying?” he asked.

The abbot smiled. “No, my son, I am suggesting that you should make your vows with a clear conscience and whole heart. While it is true that God is our refuge, we do not wish to have to hide behind his robes in the face of adversity.”

Edmund nodded. “I’ll pack my things at once.” He rose and knelt next to the abbot, kissing his ring.

“May God go with you on your journey, Edmund, and we look forward to your return. Go now, in God’s peace.”

He nodded, unsure if he’d ever truly felt God’s peace, or if he’d deluded himself all this time in hiding behind what he thought was right. It would be good to have things between himself and Gregory harmonious again. Even if his life in the abbey took him far away from home after this, he would be better for this slight deviation in his plans.

7

IT WAS JUST AS HE’D LEFT IT. LITTLE HAD changed in Dublin since Edmund sailed from its shores three years ago, except now he noticed traces of Gaelic influence had seeped back into the predominantly English village. Celtic music played freely in the courtyard of a pub, and in the din of voices on the wharf, he’d heard snippets of the ancient Gaelic tongue. His mother had kept him abreast of the changes, explaining that parliament was weakening its stand on keeping the two cultures separate, for they were already so tightly woven together.